Forty Minutes
by briroch
Summary: Steve is recovering from a serious injury, the story shows his POV dealing with pain and frustration.


**_Disclaimer: _**_I do not own the characters of SOSF, I only write for my own enjoyment and hope my readers enjoy it too, but not for profit!_

_Thank you, dear Tanith, for your time to do my beta reading. I know what a precious gift time is!_

_**Forty Minutes**_

_Pain, pain, pain._ A pain in the knee is a real pain in the ass. Screaming pain, howling pain, but only when you are alone and sure nobody can hear you. That's why it is so much better being here alone in my apartment than staying with Mike, as he suggested. Mike? Almost time for him to call in again, so you'd better put on a brave face and bite back the pain! _Pain._ To distract myself one long night, I tried to find synonyms for pain from A to Z but I only got from agony to woe. X, Y and Z eluded me.

I hear Mike's key in the door and put on my most upbeat expression, ready to crack the jokes I have been preparing all day.

Mike comes in with a gust of fresh air, bearing a shopping bag and a forced smile. The only person I have seen today, the only person I have seen in days and the only person I want to see, really.

He fleetingly touches my shoulder, very gently, as if he knew that even the lightest touch could set off the pain again.

"You look much better than you did this morning," Mike lies through his teeth.

But this is part of the understanding we have between us. For my sake and for his sake.

"Are the pain killers working for you today?" He continues.

I nod. How can they work when I'm not even taking them? But that's a different story, and one that breaches the code of understanding we share.

He starts bustling in the kitchen, putting away the shopping and preparing something for our dinner. The poor man is forced to spend all his spare time looking after me in my apartment. There are fewer steps to get down to the car, very important for doctor's appointments these days.

Until quite recently I never noticed how many steps there are in San Francisco. Too many.

Mike keeps chatting about work and about recent events. On the one hand I am dying to hear first-hand what's going on in the Department; on the other hand it hurts that I can't be there. Will I ever be there again?

Mike disrupts my black train of thought. He comes in with two plates and glasses on a tray.

"I thought it's much cosier in here, eating from a tray."

In plain English what he really meant was: _I won't have to move you to the table and cause you more pain._

Mike - I never thought he could be so considerate and understanding. When it comes to minor injuries he can be an unbearable fusspot, but when things get tough, he is like a different person. He becomes the strength that I need to get through the pain.

He props up the tray on a few cushions. Even the food is already cut into bite-sized portions, as if he knew the action of cutting up meat and veg would jar the aching joint. He hands me a tall glass of milk which I accept without putting up a fight. Milk is supposed to be the key in bone development after all and I'm willing to take all help that I can get. Well, almost all…

Mike sits opposite me, his plate balanced on his knees. I watch him with a certain degree of envy. On his knees… I look at my own knee in the cumbersome splint, stitches still red and raw and oh, so tender. When I think of how the joint must look inside, my stomach heaves.

Mike keeps talking and I do my best to follow his narrative and make some appropriate non-committal remarks. I'm sure he notices that my thoughts are in a different world, in a world where I run up and down the stairs and don't need any help getting in and out of the shower. A world where my life is not dependant on someone like Mike Stone. The world that I _had_.

I put down my fork, my throat constricts and I can't swallow. I've swallow too much bitterness, fear, pain. I can't swallow anything else.

Mike looks at my half eaten meal and frowns, but he doesn't make a comment. He just leans over, ruffles my hair and sighs, his eyes too bright.

My throat tightens even more, this time with guilt. I know I worry the shite out of Mike and make him feel helpless - not something that Mike is accustomed to.

He helps me so much; I would be lost without him and his ingenuity. He brought me the office chair on wheels that make getting around the apartment a little bit easier, unless I bang the stiffly stretched out leg against a door frame. He organised a plastic chair for me to sit on in the shower with the bad leg propped up on another chair outside the shower stall to keep the stitches dry. I could never do it on my own, and even with help it is a painful procedure. At least the spray of water hides the tears of pain and frustration and any redness of my eyes is attributed to the shampoo dripping from my hair.

At least that ordeal is not on the agenda tonight, it will wait until after the physio appointment, my very special torture session. I am so sore and bad tempered afterwards that the shower procedure seems almost bearable.

Just to please Mike, I try and finish most of my steak. He rewards me with a warm smile and then proceeds to offer me the next dose of my painkillers. I know there is no escaping the pills he gives me in the morning and evening but I avoid the noon and night doses. "You must be out of tablets soon. I better get the new prescription filled for you tomorrow." He shakes the bottle and frowns again. I should have dumped them down the drain, but I didn't want to poison the fish in the bay.

"Steve, you're not taking them, are you?" he asks quietly.

I had expected a minor explosion and a tongue lashing but he is surprisingly calm. Sometimes I wish he would just yell and let it out, be the Mike we all know and love. Normality, that's what I'm craving.

"I'll make us some coffee. Maybe you can explain it to me then, okay?" _When the pain killers have kicked in and you can think clearly _…

"Decaf?" I suggest. I'm sleeping badly as it is and a caffeine buzz late at night doesn't help.

"Decaf it is!" Mike pats my shoulder as he leaves for the kitchen.

How can I explain why I avoid the painkillers and rather endure excruciating pain? I don't quite understand it myself. I try and wriggle into a slightly more comfortable position but the movement sets off the pain again. I can't bite back the yelp. I glance at the clock. Now that I have caused a spasm in the knee, it will last for a very long time without relenting. On and on and on. As I had already taken a dose of medication, the pain may actually soon be dulled by the painkillers. Forty minutes, that's when they should kick in. Forty minutes can seem like an eternity.

Mike must have heard me cry out and comes in with an ice pack. The initial pain caused by the pressure of the pack on the overly sensitive area is numbed by the ice after a few minutes, minutes that seem to contain more than sixty seconds. I break out in a sweat and begin feeling light headed. Mike dabs my face with a wet towel and mutters soothing words. Words that elude me, as I haven't got the concentration to listen, but the tone of his voice is reassuring. I let out the breath I have been holding and glance at the clock again.

"What do you think, shall we get you into bed now?" he suggests after a while when my breathing is less ragged.

I know where he is coming from. Rather than cause another episode of agony in an hour or so, we might as well get it over with now when I am hurting already. I nod, clenching my teeth and give in, both to the pain and to Mike's help.

A torturously twenty minutes later I am in bed, still propped up in a sitting position, but the last movement of the day - getting horizontal - won't be so bad, I hope. Mike is sitting on the edge of my bed, at the side of the good leg. Pillows support and protect the bad leg. I am still biting my lip and sweating. Another twenty minutes and the painkillers may take effect. I hope.

When I come out of the red haze of pain, I feel awful about going to pieces in front of Mike. I usually put on a show for him, though I suspect he never really believed me anyhow, but he can't ignore the performance I'm giving tonight.

The spasms of pain are finally relenting and the painkillers seem to have taken the edge off. I sigh with relief.

Mike pats my hand. "Better?" he asks and all I can do is nod. He hands me a glass of water. "I'll get us that coffee in a minute and then we'll talk, okay?"

Again I nod; I still don't trust my voice enough to speak.

A short time later we are both nursing cups of coffee. I sip the hot liquid and the warmth spreading through my body relaxes me and makes me feel better.

Mikes opens the conversation, but not with an interrogation as I had expected. "Steve, I can't bear to see you like this. Please, stop torturing yourself and me."

Oh man, I never thought about how Mike must be feeling. After all, I took the bullet that was meant for him. But what could I do? If I hadn't jumped in between him and the gun pointed at him, the slug would have hit him in the chest, as he was on the ground. I only caught it in the knee.

"I'm sorry, Mike" I mumble. "It's really not all that bad."

"You're a bad liar, buddy boy. You almost passed out from the pain there earlier on. Steve, taking pain relief is nothing to be ashamed of. You won't heal as long as you are hurting. Remember what the doctor said?"

I nod. I understand that I need pain relief to be comfortable, that I need to be comfortable to heal. And I remember what the surgeon said about pain transmitters habitually sending pain signals unless the cycle is broken. It all makes perfect sense - for anyone but me.

Mike is looking at me expectantly and I know I owe him an explanation. After all, he fought my fight when I was too ill and too weak to do it myself. He more or less forced the surgeon at gunpoint to try and put the joint together again. And he put more pressure on the surgeon to try another antibiotic and another one until they had the infection under control. I can't remember any of it, I was completely out of it and all the decisions were left to Mike. How do I know? Oh, I managed to wheedle that out of Jeannie, on the few occasions I would let her see me in the hospital.

I take another gulp of my now cooling coffee.

"Steve, there is no need to act the hero. There is a reason why pain medication was invented."

I shake my head, he is so way off! But I suppose in a way I owe him an explanation. Oh, I have never liked the way strong painkillers make me feel, but there is more to this. I swallow and brace myself. "Mike, what if I end up needing the pain killers?" I can't hide the fear in my voice when I eventually say what has been troubling me for a long time.

"You mean getting hooked on them?" Mike uses the dreaded word.

I nod.

Mike shakes his head. "Nah, buddy boy, you're the wrong sort of person for that." He studies my face. "Steve, I'm not making light of your fears, they are legitimate and all, but I know you, you are really not the type."

I am far from convinced and he knows it so he goes into further explanations. "You don't take pain killers to get a kick, you take them for a bit of pain relief. Am I right?"

I nod again.

"Apart from doing something for the pain, do they do anything for you?"

"They make me feel tired and kinda unreal…" I confess reluctantly.

"Do you like it?"

"No! It is rather unpleasant."

"There now, why should you want to take the painkillers once the pain is gone?" he grins widely, obviously happy with the way his reasoning went.

I can't help but smile myself. Maybe he is right, maybe he is wrong, but there is still the matter of…

He interrupts my train of thought, and I wonder if he can read my mind. "Buddy boy, and if there is some kind of physical dependency, we'll manage that when and if it comes down to it, okay?" He looks at me intently.

_We _- I know he means it and it is good to have someone on your side, someone like Mike.

Mike helps me to settle properly in bed and gives my shoulder a last pat. He doesn't leave the night dose of pain killers on my bedside table, so I know he'll sleep on my sofa as he did when I was first released from hospital. I know he will do so until he is sure I am taking the pain killers as prescribed.

_Oh Mike…_ I'd take the bullet for him again in a heartbeat, after all what is the pain I'm going through now compared to the pain of losing him?


End file.
